


Bits & Bobs & Odds & Ends

by Shaicarus



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Anxiety, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Child Abandonment, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied Death, King Alistair, Look I proofread for my day job i'm not doing it recreationally, M/M, Not Beta Read, One Shot Collection, Phonetic accent, Poetry, Slavery mentioned, Swearing, Will add relevant tags as I go, Written for writer's month, but only for one ficlet, mentions of vomiting, superhero au, tavern au, the death is in an au ficlet tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-07-29 07:15:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 15,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20078272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaicarus/pseuds/Shaicarus
Summary: “D'you believe in love at first sight?” Darrick asks eventually, absentmindedly toying with the earring with the hand he’s not leaning on.“I believe in many things,” Zevran evades, his voice going lofty and his gaze drifting towards the ceiling. When he looks back down, Darrick arches one unimpressed eyebrow at him, and he grins. “Alright, no, I do not. But I did notice very quickly that you are very pretty.”Darrick has a moment to preen before Zevran wonders, slowly, “Do you?”





	1. Day 1 - Annoyance

He’s pacing. He knows he’s pacing and he’s been pacing for the last hour and a half, but so far any attempts to stop pacing haven’t even made it to implementation.

“You’re going to wear a rut into the dirt,” Alistair points out wryly. “Pretty sure you already did, actually,” he adds, eyeing the worn circle around the campfire. Darrick blinks down at it slowly, and Alistair snorts out a quiet laugh. “Come on, you’ve gone all glazed over. What’s wrong?”

“Who says anythin’s wrong?” Darrick protests sharply.

“If there wasn’t,” Alistair returns patiently, “then you would be talking.” He catches Darrick by the back of the shirt as he passes again, and Darrick yelps as he’s tugged down to sit on the log. A half-finished wooden horse and a knife are pressed into his hands almost immediately.

“You went in my pack,” he grumbles, though there’s no real heat behind the words. Already, he’s working the knife through the wood.

“I did not,” Alistair retorts primly. “Zevran went in your pack.”

Across the fire, Zevran wiggles his fingers in a cheerful wave.

“Could have unmentionable things in there,” Darrick carries on, regardless of the fact that he does not.

“You laughed at the idea of privacy,” Zevran points out. “Two days ago.”

“You were talking to Sten,” Alistair confirms.

Oh. Right.

“Honestly, just like annoyin’ Sten,” Darrick admits, shrugging one shoulder. He flicks a splinter of wood away.

“We know,” Alistair assures him wryly. “Now are you going to say what’s wrong or not?”

“Why’re you the only one allowed t’ be evasive?” Darrick pouts, mouth twisting to the side in a scowl.

“I outrank you,” comes the plain answer, and…Darrick doesn’t really have a response for that, in the face of Literal Royalty.

“Yer an ass,” he continues to pout. “Tha’s wha’s wrong.”

“Mm, yeah, true,” Alistair agrees, “but that didn’t bother you earlier, so pull the other one.”

“’m havin’ an existential crisis,” Darrick replies, “while thinkin’ of the sheer volume of shit we’re in. Nuggalope shit, clear up t’ our eyebrows.”

“Quaint,” Zevran deadpans.

Alistair gives Darrick a jostle, a hand between his shoulders. “Look on the bright side!” he tries. “At least you can finally have a decent story to tell at Satinalia.”

Darrick flicks a splinter at his head.


	2. Day 2 - Hurt/Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> darrick has no sense of personal space. he thinks it’s a pointless idea. <s>also in my head i think of alistair and darrick as moirails and oh no everyone knows i used to be a filthy homestuck now</s>

The estate is large and expensive and has more rooms than probably the entirety of the alienage, but finding Alistair is easy enough all the same.

Neither one speaks when Darrick sits down on the rug in front of the fire, the edge of the low table Alistair is sitting on digging into his shoulders. Wordlessly, Alistair gives Darrick’s arm a prod with one knee and Darrick shuffles the few inches to the side to lean back against Alistair’s shins, instead.

Eventually, Darrick tips his head back. “Copper fer yer thoughts?” he wonders, drawing a knee up to tap his heel against the rug.

“There’s this dream I have sometimes,” Alistair replies, glancing down at Darrick only briefly before looking back into the fire.

“Darkspawn?” Darrick wonders, head still tipped back.

“No–well, sort of, but not like that,” Alistair replies. “You’re not there, in the dream,” he carries on. “I’m in charge of the band of merry maniacs, and I do the politicking and the questing and I gather up the people who need to honor the treaties. And then we’re facing the Archdemon and it all falls apart.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Just by virtue of me being the one doing it, it isn’t good enough.”

Darrick looks back to the fire, drawing in a breath and sighing it out slowly. Other than his heel against the rug, he’s silent.

“What’d ya name the dog?” he asks eventually, darting a glance upwards and then back to the fire. “In the dream.”

Alistair huffs out something like a laugh. “Barkspawn,” he supplies.

“See, tha’s jus proof that you definitely should’a been in charge,” Darrick supplies, grinning and craning partway around when Alistair snorts.

The mood sobers again shortly.

“I’m not sure what you’re expecting to happen, putting me on the throne,” Alistair sighs.

“We awready talked–”

“I know,” Alistair grouses. “Anora will still rule, I know. That…doesn’t really make me feel any better, Dare. ‘Figurehead’ wasn’t what I really had in mind for my life.”

“Hey.” In a flash, Darrick is on his knees and facing Alistair, hands on the edge of the table. “’m not doin’ this fer that.” He digs the heels of his hands against the edge of the table. “I don’t want you t’ be king so you’ll look pretty fer yer people. I want you to _challenge her_.”

Alistair tips his head to one side, one eyebrow arching.

“Look, jus’–” Darrick makes an aggravated noise. “If Anora’s been runnin’ things the las’ few years, then that means shit got like this on her watch. She let her nobles treat my alienage like a personal whorehouse. She let her father take command and then expected t’ still be treated as queen. An’ from the way she describes it? Cailan was happy not to question her. An’ I want that to stop.”

“But I–”

“_You_ are a good man, Ali. _You_ won’t just sit there while a chunk’a your people get shat on.”

There’s a slow sigh, and a mild, “No. No, I suppose I won’t.”

Darrick grins, toothy and bright. “Yer gonna be great. Just give yerself a chance.”


	3. Day 3 - Coffee Shop AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well i'm almost on-prompt

In a different time, in a different life, the darkspawn are content to stay beneath the ground, and there is no convenient Grey Warden visiting the city.

Darrick Tabris and his cousins don’t return to the alienage. Darrick and Soris know what Denerim is like. They know the guards won’t take their side, and their neighbors wouldn’t be able to hide them for long if they had tried. And Shianni isn’t going to simply let them leave her behind.

Vaughan is dead, put down like a rabid mongrel with his posse and his guards. Darrick finds a bag while Soris lays hands on anything remotely valuable and portably sized and Shianni ushers everyone else towards the side doors. When they leave, the bag bulging with stolen jewelry, clothing, weapons, they have no plans of going home.

They make it to the gates of Denerim, where a dwarven merchant and his son offer to let them hitch a ride on their cart if they’re going the same way.

They aren’t going any particular way, so they take him up on the offer. The merchant is content to chatter on about anything and everything with only mild encouragement from Darrick. If he wonders where they’re going or why, he never asks, and after a few days they part ways. In small towns and back alleys, they trade and barter their stolen goods, until they’re comfortably loaded down with coin and dressed not in tattered rags, but still modestly enough not to attract any attention.

With time, they wind up in Antiva. They have enough to rent a small house without needing to worry, but they know their coin won’t last forever, and so they look for work. They don’t _actively_try to all be hired at the same tavern, but they don’t argue with the outcome. All three of them are pretty enough to attract attention and caustic enough to discourage hands, and Darrick is sly and nimble enough that even patrons who don’t pay still wind up doing so unknowingly. So long as he doesn’t take more than is necessary, the tavern’s owner seems happy to look the other way.

“Do you know where I might find this man?”

The question comes out of nowhere one day, asked lowly, intending not to be heard by many. Darrick is cleaning the bar, and he pauses to glance at the slip of paper being slid towards him. Almost imperceptibly, Soris and Shianni pause in their own jobs, half their attention turning towards the bar. They’ve long since gotten into the habit of watching over each other, and they don’t intend to stop.

“Can’t read, ser,” Darrick returns blandly, hands resuming their work.

The elf across from him rolls his eyes, as if he’s being so put out.

The pretty patrons always seem to think they’re special.

“He a regular here?” Darrick asks, and the stranger eyes him cautiously.

“Why?” he asks carefully.

“‘Cause ’m illiterate, not fuckin’ stupid,” Darrick answers, voice pitched to a low stage whisper. “If ya just _say_ his name instead of wavin’ a piece'a paper around like some bard in a two copper bodice ripper, then I can probably _also_ say somethin’ helpful.”

The stranger is silent for a moment, face screwed up in an expression Darrick can’t quite pinpoint, as if he hasn’t quite decided whether to be amused, embarrassed, annoyed, or a tangle of the three.

“Eduardo Ricci,” he supplies after a minute. “Human. Tall. No–”

“No hair, yeah, I know,” Darrick cuts him off. “Works for the smithie down the alley. Likes t’ take too many breaks to smoke his pipe ‘round the back. Easy t’ pickpocket.”

The pretty patrons aren’t always trouble, but it’s happened enough that Darrick’s come to expect it. So he’d rather not let the stranger linger, and he doesn’t feel enough of an attachment to Eduardo to try and obfuscate, especially if offering the information plainly gets the probable-troublemaker out of the tavern.

The stranger eyes him oddly for a moment, eyes slightly narrowed and mouth pursed to the side. Darrick doesn’t know what he does, but he’s probably a bit too expressive for whatever it is. Or at least he gives off that sort of black market vibe.

“Need anything else?” Darrick asks, yanking the stranger out of his thoughts.

“Ah–no. You’ve…been most helpful.”

As he makes his way out of the tavern, Shianni comes to lean against the edge of the bar, the rag she had been using to scrub a table tucked into her belt. No one else in the tavern seems to have noticed that anything strange was happening.

“Do we need to move house again?” she asks dryly, propping her chin up on her fist.

Darrick rolls his eyes and reaches over to tug one of her braids. “Go hassle Soris.”


	4. Day 4 - Roadtrip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mnnnn don't like this one much

Occasionally, exhaustion sets in. Bone deep and lingering, in a way that a single night’s sleep can’t chase off. But they don’t really have time to just…take a day off. The Archdemon doesn’t care how tired they are.

Bodahn, however, does.

Darrick isn’t sure when the merchant went from ‘sticking close while they’re going the same direction’ to 'actively tagging along,’ but he isn’t going to argue. Not when it means that, sometimes, when sleep doesn’t come during the night and the prospect of walking twenty miles the next day seems like torture, he’s allowed to climb into the wagon and sit on the tail gate as it rumbles along. The oxen pulling it are slow, docile beasts and don’t move at an especially sprightly pace. It’s easy enough for one of the others to catch up and climb aboard, or for Darrick to hop off without missing a step when he’s decided he’s ridden for long enough.

He’s sprawled on his back in the wagon one morning, the tail gate down and his legs dangling. Halfheartedly, he’s making sure nothing goes tumbling out, or else it would be a piss poor way of saying thank you. His fingers drum against the wood beneath him, until he hears the tail gate creak. His hands still, and he lifts his head to watch Zevran heft himself into the wagon. Darrick lets his head thump back down, and when Zevran comes to a halt beside him, he sort of eels himself to the side to fling himself over Zevran’s lap, face down.

“Comfortable?” Zevran wonders dryly.

“Not really,” Darrick mumbles, voice muffled against Zevran’s hip. “Not gonna move, though.”

“I would not expect you to,” Zevran assures him, and he shifts in a way that Darrick assumes means he’s leaning back on his hands.

The wagon continues to trundle along, and Darrick can hear the others talking outside. He can’t say he’s comfortable or particularly content, and eventually he’s going to have to move because someone else is probably going to climb into the wagon and there’s hardly enough space for two people as it is.

But after a few moments, he feels a tug as the twine is pulled loose from his ponytail and he feels fingers in his hair, and it’s not the _worst_ situation he’s found himself in since leaving Denerim, so he’ll consider that good enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the way, i have [a tumblr](https://shaicarus.tumblr.com/) if anyone wants to chat


	5. Day 5 - Sound

It’s difficult to describe the way it sounds. It’s not an unpleasant sound, or Darrick suspects it would be less of a draw for the tainted. But he also can’t quite say it’s enjoyable. It gets described as singing, but it’s not exactly accurate. Humming, perhaps. Chanting, occasionally. He can never actually make out any words.

More than anything, it’s…attractive. Like a candle is to a moth, bright and brilliant and completely willing to burn it up.

He rolls over on his bedroll and clamps his hands over his ears, but it doesn’t help. The noise is in his head. He can’t exactly keep it out when it’s already there.

He knows enough about what’s going on in the world to know it’s not actually the Calling, it’s not actually his time--_this too shall pass-_–but he isn’t actually sure how helpful it is.

Zevran shifts beside him, grumbling in his sleep before flinging an arm over Darrick’s middle and yanking him closer. Rapid-fire, Darrick drums the fingers of one hand against his collarbone and halfheartedly attempts to keep still.

Sleep will come eventually, probably. It didn’t last night, so his reserves are bound to run out sometime before morning. Until then, there’s little he can do but wait and listen.


	6. Day 6 - Kids

It is years before Darrick ever meets Kieran. Not for neglect or nerves or regret, but more for…confusion. He’s not sure how to react to a child who he has fathered but not parented. Had anyone ever bothered to ask him if he had children, he likely would have forgotten himself and said _no_.

Besides, Morrigan had been content to keep Darrick out, and he had been content to let her. To say a child didn’t fit into his life was to be charitable about it.

They’re in Tevinter, when it happens. Darrick is still on his self-assigned quest, though he’s not sure what’s brought Morrigan back into civilization when he’s fairly sure she would be content to live at the edge of the world for the rest of her days.

He recognizes her in an instant, and he knows she sees him, but she looks right past him and continues on her way. It’s the teenage boy following in her wake who meets Darrick’s eyes and waves for him to follow.

Cautiously, Darrick lopes after them. When he catches up in an alley on the opposite side of the marketplace, he’s not sure where Morrigan has disappeared to, but the boy is in front of him, smiling…pleasantly, but enigmatically so.

If Darrick’s math is right, the boy is fourteen. Already, Darrick hardly comes up to the tip of his nose.

They get a moment to simply regard each other, but that is all they get. Darrick opens his mouth–to say what, he isn’t sure–but he doesn’t get a chance to speak before Morrigan’s voice calls, “Kieran?”

“Coming, Mother!” the boy calls, and he offers Darrick another smile before he turns on his heel and trots away.

Darrick stays there, rooted to the spot, watching the boy disappear around the corner of a building. He could follow, he supposes. But he won’t. Morrigan was his friend, once, a long time ago. Should she ever need his help, he will give it. But they got all they needed from each other, and he knows his presence will not be welcome.

Eventually, he turns back around and steps back into the market.


	7. Day 7 - Sports

“Twelve!”

“C'mon, Leli, keep up!”

“Well what are _you_ at?”

“Fifteen!”

Oghren’s laughter ripped through the air just as his axe ripped through a hurlock’s torso, and an instant later he declared, “Twenty-two! What have you nug-lickers been doin’?”

As Oghren bounded away, Darrick and Leliana shared a look.

“Team up?” he suggested.

“Just for a little while,” she agreed.


	8. Day 8 - Colors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well that went to depressing places
> 
> <s>also i’ve completely failed to describe dare up to this point, but he looks like a facial-hair-free, 5′2″ version of BBC’s d’artagnan. why yes, ali IS like a foot taller than him.</s>

Darrick knew that look on Alistair’s face. Tight around the eyes, mouth turned tautly downwards. That look that meant he was seeing red. Darrick had seen it a few times, just…never directed at him.

Darrick swallowed, pulling his attention back to Riordan with an effort of will. He sort of, kind of, not really kept track of what Riordan was saying. Enough to request that he hold off on the ritual until Darrick was there. And then, as Riordan led Loghain away, Darrick turned and scampered after Alistair as he retreated from the room.

Darrick caught Alistair’s arm in the corridor, only to recoil when he wrenched his wrist free of Darrick’s hold.

“Ali–”

“_Don’t_–”

“Just _trust me_ fer a minute!”

Alistair barked out an ugly laugh and tugged a hand through his hair, head tipping back to look at the ceiling. “A Grey Warden!” There was another bitter, incredulous laugh. “After everything he’s done, and you’re going to let him be one of us. Just like that. I should have _known_something like this would happen.”

Darrick could feel his expression evening out. “So you can read minds now?” he wondered flatly. “That a thing you nobles do?”

“What are you _talking_–”

“I’m gonna _poison the fucking cup_, dogshite,” Darrick snarled, voice low. “I figured ‘oh, Alistair’s gonna be shacked up to the queen, that might be awkward if she thinks we murdered her fuckin’ dad!’”

Alistair had gone very still, staring wide-eyed at Darrick, who plowed on heedlessly.

“Maker’s cock, you noble-sort really are all the fuckin’ same, aren’t you?” Darrick groused, and he couldn’t even enjoy it when Alistair flinched. “Soon as the elf does anythin’ wrong, welp, time’s up, he’s gotta go. Even if that elf has personally hauled your ass out of the fire, _and_ kept your aunt and your cousin and your uncle alive!”

He could keep going, but they didn’t exactly have all the time in the world just then, and Darrick cut himself off abruptly. Alistair was staring at him still, white as a sheet and looking sort of stricken. Darrick didn’t really have it in him just then to wonder if it was because he felt bad or because Darrick had somehow hurt his feelings.

“Shouldn’t keep Riordan waitin’ too long,” he muttered, voice flat, before he spun on his heel and stalked back in the direction they had come from.

“Dare–” He could hear Alistair’s boots behind him, and he ground to a halt.

“Shouldn’t you be gettin’ t'know yer betrothed, ser?” Darrick heard Alistair’s boots come to a halt, and he kept moving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has almost nothing to do with the prompt other than 'seeing red' but shut up leave me alone


	9. Day 9 - Time Travel

“If you could go back an’ redo any of it, wouldja?”

The question comes from seemingly nowhere as they sit in front of the fire. Darrick, sitting on the floor, keeps his eyes on the flames at first, until Alistair, in his chair, takes too long to answer and he finally looks up.

Alistair is watching him curiously, one side of his mouth quirked up in a quiet smile.

“Yer goin’ all weird on me,” Darrick grouses, prodding Alistair’s knee with his elbow. “Stoppit.”

Alistair huffs out a laugh, and hums thoughtfully, the sound drawn out to the point of parody. “Not a lot,” he settles on, shrugging one shoulder. “I still wish I could have done something to save Duncan, but on the whole…well, we didn’t do too badly, did we?”

“I guess not,” Darrick replies, distracted. The fire pops and he watches a spark jump.

“Having second thoughts about things?” Alistair wonders, nudging Darrick with a knee.

Darrick snorts inelegantly. “Please. I was so fuckin’ stupid back then,” he scoffs. “Feral li'l gremlin man runnin’ around trying to put the pieces together when I didn’t even know what the puzzle looked like.”

“Harrowmont maybe wasn’t the best choice,” Alistair concedes, “but otherwise it seemed to work out for the best.” When he doesn’t get an answer, he wonders, “What brought this on?”

Darrick sighs slowly. “Gotta go back t’ Tevinter soon,” he grumbles. “Barely managed to find any'a my neighbors.” He digs the heels of his hands absentmindedly against the floor, glaring into the fire for a drawn out moment before he admits, “Found two. An’ that’s if ya count the one what got beat t’ death.”

“That wasn’t your fault,” Alistair points out quietly.

Darrick grunts wordlessly in reply and draws a knee up to his chest, curling an arm around it and resting his chin on top. “Maybe,” he concedes. “Still wish I could go back an’ redo it.”

They’re quiet after that. Darrick picks at the rug with one hand, tugging at fraying threads. Finally, he heaves a sigh and tips over onto the floor, landing in a graceless heap. “Liked it better when I didn’t think ‘bout this shite.”

“Pretty sure we all did,” Alistair assures him, making no comment on him becoming a puddle. “But think how dull life would be if we were still those people?”

Food for thought, if nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i continue to not end things, but to just kinda...stop


	10. Day 10 - Dark AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: blood, death

He bares his teeth in a snarling grin, blood on his teeth and blood everywhere else. The floor beneath him is stained red and black and drenched. He’s long since dropped his long sword, left arm hanging limp and unfeeling. He’s always been good with just a dagger. That’s not going to change now.

Darrick parries and twists, forcing a hurlock’s face away from his own and stabbing his mother’s knife through its eye. He wrenches the blade back and lets the body drop. There are more to replace it.

“We’re both going to die here,” Alistair observes, slumped against the wall. Not nervous. Not sad. Not angry. Just matter-of-fact.

“Ee-yep,” Darrick agrees pleasantly, scrubbing the back of his arm over his mouth. “Gonna stab as many of ‘em as I can first, though.” He spits a red mouthful on the floor.

“You do that,” Alistair returns dryly, using his arms to haul himself slightly more upright against the wall. His legs drag limply with the motion.

The signal fire hasn’t been lit yet, and neither of them are anywhere close to it. The mage they collected died two floors below. The soldier didn’t even make it into the tower. They could really only do so much with just two.

A genlock to Darrick’s left sprawls to the ground, Alistair’s boot knife protruding from its forehead. “Can’t let you do all the stabbing,” he wheezes, trying and failing to pull himself back upright after leaning over to grab and throw the knife.

“Guess I can let you have the one,” Darrick concedes, knife flipping and slamming upwards, blade-first through a hurlock’s chin. Not quite fast enough, blackened claws scrabbling at shoddy, hand-me-down armor and tearing into flesh. The red on the floor is far outweighing the black by now.

Darrick stumbles back, grip slipping off the knife’s hilt. It’s pulled from his fingers as the hurlock topples, still wedged in its chin. Darrick’s back meets the wall and he slides downward.

“What type do elves become?” he wonders, words coming slow and sluggish. “Alistair?”

Beside him, Alistair’s chin has dipped towards his chest, eyes still open but glassy. An answer isn’t forthcoming.

Darrick takes a breath. Sighs it out, spraying blood past his lips. There’s not much point in fighting it, now.

He lets his eyes slip shut.


	11. Day 11 - Whump

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: violence, blood, some gore, vomit

It’s not really a surprise when the floor gives out beneath them. The ruins are held up by cobwebs and the dreams of sleepless bureaucrats, and they’ve passed by numerous holes in the floor already. And maybe a pair of elves isn’t enough to cause a collapse, but when one of those elves in a Grey Warden and thus naturally causes all darkspawn in the area to flock towards him like a small, fleshy beacon, then that is considerably more weight.

When they land on the next floor down, amidst rubble and debris and ankle-deep water, only a few of the darkspawn fell with them, and the rest don’t seem particularly keen on following them down.

Darrick kicks a genlock off and slams his dagger through its chin. A few feet to his left, he can hear Zevran dealing with the hurlock and the shriek. Which is good, because Darrick is distracted a moment later by something rather more pressing.

“Uhh…Zev?”

Looking a bit like a ruffled, soggy cat, Zevran looks at him, and goes very pale as his gaze is drawn, almost magnetically, to the arrow shaft sticking out of Darrick’s midsection.

“Don’ freak out.”

“I am doing no such thing,” Zevran answers tightly, sloshing his way over. He makes it to Darrick’s side in time to catch his wrist before he can grab the shaft. “Don’t do that. We would both prefer if your insides stayed there.”

“Um.” Darrick shifts carefully, unable to fully sit still even then. Zevran eyes the injury for a moment, dithering, even if he would never refer to it as such. Finally, he shrugs off his pack and begins rummaging through it, until he pulls out a roll of bandaging. He drops to his knees at Darrick’s side, and Darrick holds his breath and nearly bites a hole in his mouth as Zevran stabilizes the arrow with the bandaging.

After that, there’s no real choice but to get to his feet and keep moving. But first, Zevran catches him by the arm and then cups his face in both hands.

“You stay behind me. You running into trouble like this is the last thing we need, yes?”

“What if you get in over yer head?” Darrick protests, as if he has all faith of it happening. Zevran rolls his eyes and grabs a darkspawn bow off the ground. Likely the same one that had put a hole in Darrick. Grumbling still, Darrick takes it.

***

At first, things work out well enough. Their going is slow, and Darrick pauses every so often to lean on a wall, swearing violently all the while. But they don’t run into the bulk of the darkspawn in the ruins, and those they do encounter are dealt with. Even if the bow isn’t Darrick’s preferred weapon, he does still know how to handle one.

And of course, he can’t resist a bit of showing off, and throws his mother’s dagger at the Hurlock readying to club Zevran over the back of the head. Zevran turns in time to watch its impact.

Darrick’s knife lands blade-first between the hurlock’s eyes, and Zevran catches it by the handle just as the body begins to topple, leaving the knife in his hand. He turns, blade slamming into a shriek’s temple, and with a jerk, he wrenches it free, tugging the shriek’s body into a genlock’s path. The genlock crashes to the ground, and before it can get back up, Darrick’s shot an arrow into the back of its neck.

Just a few shrieks left, and they’ll hopefully be home free.

But there are still only two of them fighting their way along, and nothing ever _truly_ goes their way. Darrick is aiming between shots when a piece of debris whipped up by the fight pings off the arrow shaft. Gasping in agony, he stumbles, and a shriek takes the opening.

The world seems to slow down as the shriek wraps a hand around the arrow shaft, and as it rips the arrow back. It comes away with a jerk, scraps of fabric and bits of meat clinging to it, and blood is soaking Darrick’s tunic and his leathers in what seems to be an instant. His mouth drops open, but he doesn’t quite manage a sound.

And then he stabs forward with the arrow he had been aiming, impaling it through the shriek’s throat. Almost simultaneously, the shriek topples backwards and Darrick stumbles against the nearest wall, bow clattering to the floor.

The ruins seem impossibly quiet then. Everything goes still.

There is

a _lot_

of blood on the floor.

With that observation out of the way, Darrick begins slipping down the wall, one arm curled around his midsection.

“No no no, don’t you _dare_…” Zevran’s voice fades into semi-coherent muttering as he catches Darrick by the elbows.

The world sways as Zevran hoists him off the ground, and

They’re outside. Darrick doesn’t remember getting there, but he’s not keen on questioning it just then, as Zevran loads him onto Garnet’s saddle. The dracolisk shifts from talon to talon, but doesn’t fuss as Belle is tied to his saddle. The mare snorts in distress, but

There is…a town? It seems small, but he isn’t sure. He’s screaming as a surgeon’s blunt fingers dig broken bits of the arrow head out of his guts. Zevran’s weight is bearing him down against a table, and someone else is pinning his legs. Zevran is talking to him, head bowed towards his ear, voice a constant semi-soothing stream, but the words

The world is hazy. He shudders, cold as winter, and Zevran holds him closer. Zevran is arguing with someone, but words aren’t really happening just then. His teeth chatter. His stomach hurts clear through to his spine. He squirms fitfully and manages to lean to the side just in time to vomit down the side of the bed and across the floor. A hand strokes his ha

Elfroot. Everything tastes and smells like elfroot. He fucking hates

There’s the crisp-cool wash of healing magic, and he takes a breath, and he doesn’t know where he is or how long he’s been there but it feels like it has to be the first deep breath he’s taken in at least an age. Beside him, there’s a sigh, and a tired, “Figlio d'un cane, sarai la mia morte.”

He goes back to sleep.

***

It’s a proper bed, which is surprising. Darrick is fairly sure he hasn’t slept on one since the last time he was in Denerim. He takes a moment to appreciate it. The bed is soft. The blanket is warm. Presumably the body spooned against his back is Zevran, and the death grip around his chest would seem to support that.

Darrick bumps his head back, tapping his crown against Zevran’s chin. “I smell,” he states plainly. “Really bad.”

“Mn,” Zevran grunts in agreement. “I was not allowed to move you until the mage said so. She will be in soon.”

“…Mage?”

“Mmhm. An apostate. Apparently very reluctant to come at first, but she did not want to be the one to let the Hero of Ferelden die.”

Finally, Darrick rolls from his side onto his back. Zevran deigns to move just enough to lean his chin on Darrick’s shoulder.

“…How long’ve we been here?” Darrick asks eventually, staring up at the ceiling.

“A little over a week,” Zevran answers, partially muffled. “You have been…_asleep_,” he phrases the word as if he’s being very charitable, “for much of it.”

Darrick wants to be surprised, but if nothing else, he definitely _feels_ like he’s barely moved in a week. He kicks the blanket off–Zevran immediately steals it–and lifts his head as he hoists his shirt up.

“…Huh.”

It’s scarred over already, courtesy of magic. It’s not an attractive scar, rough and ropey and visibly indented, for all that it’s scarcely bigger than a silver.

“Dare?”

“Yeah?”

“You are going to make me go grey.”

“You’ll still be pretty,” Darrick assures him, and levers himself up onto his elbows. “The mage can find me in the bath,” he decides, and then hefts himself out of bed before any protest can be fully formed. Behind him, Zevran groans, but nonetheless Darrick can hear footsteps following him from the room.


	12. Day 12 - Dreams

It is not a slow and graceful thing when he wakes up.

Darrick flails, eyes snapping open as he goes from laying down to sitting up in an instant. Beside him, Zevran snorts himself partially awake as Darrick accidentally slaps him, but he doesn’t have time to acknowledge the situation before Darrick scrambles out of the tent, snarling still loud in his ears and caustic breath still hot on his face.

“Morning,” Alistair greets, overly cheerful and already sitting on a stump by the fire. It’s a charitable way to describe the time.

“Fancy runnin’ into you here,” Darrick offers, melting to the ground beside the stump and slumping against Alistair’s arm. Alistair hands over his still mostly full cup of coffee and reaches down to the pot and the cup sitting at his side to pour a new one.

Darrick drums his fingers against the sides of the cup, both hands curled around it. His knee bounces.

“We’re runnin’ outta time,” he observes eventually, tipping the cup this way and that and watching the contents slosh.

“Mmhmmm,” Alistair agrees lowly.

Darrick takes a deep breath and sighs it out, and downs most of the coffee in his cup in one go. He sets it down on the ground, heavily enough to leave a ring in the dirt.

“What now?”

Neither of them quite has an answer.


	13. Day 13 - Feelings

They’re wandering through Orzammar when their heart-to-heart happens. Just taking a breather after leaving the deep roads and plunking the crown onto Harrowmont’s head. Darrick and Wynne are a few yards ahead, haggling with a blacksmith over the state of Darrick’s long sword, leaving Zevran and Alistair to entertain themselves.

They’re just finishing a debate about the merits of wine versus mead when Zevran muses, pleasantly, “You know, my tall friend, you put up with me far more than most would expect.”

Dryly, Alistair wonders, “Because of that whole ‘sent to kill me and my best friend’ bit, or because you’re just sort of annoying?”

“Well, both,” Zevran acknowledges, “but mostly that first bit.”

Alistair shrugs a shoulder and rubs the back of his head with one hand. “You haven’t really had the chance? I mean, it’s not like anyone lets you cook or pack the bags.”

“Ah! But what if I got bored and decided to be daring?” Zevran wonders, striking a brief swashbuckling pose.

Alistair rolls his eyes emphatically enough that he can probably see his brain stem. “Zev, I’m a head taller than you and twice as broad,” he points out blandly, “and Dare takes me literally everywhere. I mean, yeah, sure, you could try something, but I’d tug your spine out your mouth either way.”

Darrick peers back at them long enough to point out, “An’ let’s not pretend I couldn’ fight Zev t'a standstill. C'mon,” before returning his attention to the blacksmith. Somehow, Wynne seems to have convinced him to be reasonable in the two seconds Darrick was distracted.

Zevran’s eyes narrow slightly as he eyes Alistair, before he offers, almost accusatory, “You know, I did not expect to like you, and yet…”

Alistair pats him on the shoulder. “I grow on people,” he replies, like some sort of consolation. “Like a fungus.”


	14. Day 14 - Fairy Tale

“They will tell stories about you.” Zevran hoists himself up to sit beside Darrick on the balcony balustrade. “They already are, but for the moment their stories still have a grain of truth to them.”

Darrick snorts and turns, slinging one leg back over the balustrade to straddle it. “Still a whole grain?” he wonders, tipping back to lay on the balustrade.

“Were you still at the celebration, you might even hear some of them!”

The noise Darrick makes is not quite a groan, but it gets his feelings on the idea across all the same.

“You like parties,” Zevran reminds him, shuffling closer, one hand landing on Darrick’s knee.

“Stops bein’ a party once it consists mostly'a nobles,” Darrick grouses. “Don’ need all them watchin’ me. They’re gonna make up some shit ‘bout how I’m an _exception_ of an elf anyway, I don’ need'a encourage 'em to start sooner than they awready will.”

Zevran hums a low note of acknowledgment. “What role do you suppose I will play in these stories?” he wonders instead. “Of course, eventually I will be forgotten, by the time you move onto being a legend, but I have some time left before that happens.”

Darrick barks out a laugh. “Figures that’s what you’re interested in.” The leg hanging off the balcony begins kicking in the air. Zevran curls his fingers in Darrick’s trousers to keep him from jostling himself right over the balustrade.

“You have very attractive coattails,” he protests, shrugging one shoulder.

Darrick pouts, though he’s still facing the sky. “That all that’s attractive?” he needles. “The one thing?”

“Well, there might be more,” Zevran concedes. “I would need a closer look.”

With a snort of laughter, and a bit of squirming and flailing, Darrick sets about the ordeal of sitting back up. Zevran catches one flailing hand and hauls him into a sitting position, so they’re nose-to-nose with each other. Zevran’s eyes dart, taking in Darrick’s face, before he admits, as if with great reluctance, “I suppose you have a few attractive aspects.”

Rolling his eyes, Darrick leans in, closing the distance. The kiss is chaste, all things considered, but neither of them is perched for anything more involved.  
When they part, Darrick swings one leg over the balustrade, so both legs are on the same side. Facing away from the castle, opposite Zevran, he leans their shoulders together.

“You’ll become some…I'unno, some foreign prince, pro'lly,” Darrick muses eventually, nudging Zevran with an elbow. “Don’ think I’ve ever heard’ve'a fairy tale assassin, but you’ve got that fairy tale prince look. From the right angles, a'leas’.”

“All of my angles are right,” Zevran protests, before he pauses to play that statement back in his head. “Well.”

“No, no, yer onta somethin’ there, keep goin’.”

Zevran shoves his shoulder against Darrick’s, latching their hands together at the same time. As melodramatically as Darrick wobbles, he’s at no risk of falling. With a quiet snigger, he readjusts his balance and leans his temple against Zevran’s shoulder.

They sit in silence, other than the celebratory noise drifting towards them. After a moment, Zevran points out, “You would become a legend. Not a fairy tale.”

Darrick shrugs the shoulder that isn’t facing Zevran. “Pretty sure they become the same thing, if you give 'em enough time.”


	15. Day 15 - First Time

The stories will say that he was fierce and fearless from the moment he followed Duncan out of the alienage to the moment the dragon is dead. To some extent, the stories are already saying that, and they still have one treaty left to go.

Darrick would like it if that were really the case. It would certainly be easier on him. But it’s rare that he really gets what he wants.

It is not the _first_ time he loses his cool, but it is the first time someone else witnesses it. They’re camping in the mountains, just a day or two out from Orzammar. Everyone else is asleep at first, and Darrick is huddled by the fire. It’s long since died down to embers, and even with the chill, he would rather not stoke it and alert everyone else that he’s up still.

Clegane curls beside him, the hound snuffling in his sleep. Absentmindedly, Darrick works his fingers into the short fur of the hound’s ruff and stares at the embers.

Come morning, it will be his father’s birthday, and he won’t be there. He knows Soris and Shianni will remember, but _he won’t be there_.

And really, what else is he going to miss? Will Soris actually get married? Will Shianni? How many of his neighbors will find love, start families, start riots?

Have any of them even noticed he’s gone?

<strike>it’s a stupid thought and he knows it’s a stupid thought, or at least he’ll know later  
</strike>

He pulls his knees closer to his chest and wraps his free arm around them, chin pressing downwards. His other hand pulls away from Clegane’s head so he can scrub his wrist over his eyes, before he resumes the meditative motion.

Almost masked by Clegane’s snoring, he hears the rustle of a tent flap, and he stills, fingers curling to a halt in Clegane’s fur. He clenches his jaw, teeth grinding, but it does little to get rid of the dampness of his eyes.

The footsteps behind him are very nearly silent, so it’s either Leliana or Zevran. The mystery is solved when Zevran hunkers down to a crouch at Darrick’s side that Clegane isn’t occupying, forearms draped over his knees.

“You are going to freeze out here,” he points out after a moment, sliding Darrick a sidelong look. “As capable as I am sure your fellow Warden is, I doubt Alistair would appreciate waking up to find he has inherited leadership.”

“He’s not the only other one here,” Darrick points out, voice low and rough.

Zevran snorts. “Oh, good. You are still funny.”

“What’re ya doin’ out here, Zev?” Darrick mumbles, still staring at the last dimly glowing embers.

“You are not the only one with things that keep you awake,” Zevran points out, “and you cast a shadow. If your loyal companion,” Clegane’s ears twitch in his sleep, “is not going to drag you to bed, one of us must.”

Still, Darrick remains huddled in his place. “Why d'you care?” he challenges, though there’s little heat behind the words.

Zevran is quiet for a moment, mulling the question over. “We are friends, yes?” he points out soon enough.

“Guess so,” Darrick mumbles in agreement.

“I have not always been a good friend to people,” Zevran acknowledges ruefully, “but even I know caring about them is typically part of it. Or at least making a pretense of it.”

Darrick snorts. “Ideally, yeah.” The silence scarcely has a chance to settle before he asks, “’s'it still count as homesick if ’s'not ‘bout the place?”

“Which one was home?” Zevran wonders quietly. “The place or the people?”

Darrick makes a noise, low and wounded, and tucks his face against his knees. Beside him, Zevran rocks forward from his crouch, landing on his knees. Darrick peeks up to find Zevran finally properly looking at him.

“Come back to my tent with me.”

Darrick’s eyes narrow. “Zev,” he warns, low and drawn out. Zevran holds his hands up as if in surrender.

“If that is where _your_ thoughts go, that is hardly my fault,” he protests. “My intentions are innocent. You may even bring the dog with you.”

Neither of them moves for a long moment. And then, finally, Darrick begins to uncurl from his huddle, conceding with a huff, “Yeah, alright. Guess it can’t hurt.”


	16. Day 16 - Soulmates

He was fourteen when he caught Shianni staring at one of the guards who periodically patrolled through the alienage, watching him like the most fascinating sight she had seen all day.

She waited until he rounded a turn before sighing out a wistful breath. “One of the only elven guards in the city,” she commented.

Darrick scoffed, arms folded over his chest as he dangled down from the neighbor’s porch by his knees, upside-down. “Still on the city’s coin,” he pointed out. “On the human’s coin.” A beat. “Also, like, twice your age.”

Shianni scowled up at him. “Do you have to ruin everything?” she grumbled, planting her hands on her hips.

Darrick grinned. “Only when yer bein’ dumb,” he answered blithely, before he uncrossed his arms to instead clutch his hands together at his chin. “‘Ooh, nameless guard, the way you trudge through our slum just does things to me.’”

Shianni’s mouth twisted to the side and her eyes narrow.

“What?” Darrick protested at the scowl, still grinning. “Are you expecting him to spot you staring at him on patrol and feel love at first sight?”

Shianni rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” she groused.

With a snort, Darrick let his arms dangle and dropped down from the porch. He landed on his hands, tipped into a back bend between the porch’s supports, and righted himself, in so much as sitting on the ground with his head pointing in the proper direction counted as righting himself. “Am I s'posed to take that as an insult? 'Cause ’m not gonna.”

With a huff, Shianni stormed away.

***

He was nineteen and, in theory, he was shortly going to be married. If he concentrated, he could almost remember her name!

Darrick focused, instead, on pestering Soris, who seemed only marginally more invested in his own marriage but had at least voiced a few opinions on the situation.

“Hopin’ for love at first sight?” he wheedled, shouldering into Soris as the last minute preparations were made.

Soris hip-checked him, very nearly sending him into a bush. “Just because you don’t care doesn’t mean some of us aren’t allowed to have standards.”

“I care!” Darrick protested, brushing leaves off of his shirt. “I hope very much she’s not annoyin’.”

Laughing, Soris pointed out, “Most people at least pick the bar up off the floor.”

(From what Darrick could tell, she hadn’t been annoying, and she had even been rather pretty, but it turned moot fairly soon after.)

***

He was nineteen and sitting beside the fire, working a knife through a piece of wood that was on its way to becoming a mabari. Beside him, Leliana tuned her lute carefully, occasionally humming to herself. Darrick flicked a splinter of wood into the fire, glancing up to watch its arc. Across the fire, Zevran glanced away from him before getting to his feet and walking away.

Darrick turned his attention back to the not-yet-mabari. Beside him, Leliana laughed quietly.

“You’ve certainly got someone’s attention, it seems,” she mused.

Darrick slid her a sidelong glance, one eyebrow rising. “I sorta got the impression his attention wasn’t that hard t'get.”

She feigned a pout at him. “You don’t have a single romantic bone in your body,” she scolded.

“Not at the moment, no,” he replied dryly, trying valiantly to keep his deadpan expression in place. He gave it up as a lost cause when she pantomimed trying to smack him with the neck of the lute, letting his grin spread as he leaned out of the way.

“Yer lookin’ for story fodder,” he accused, pointing the half-carved piece of wood at her. “The hero fallin’ head over heels for his would-be killer.”

“It does sound like a charming tale,” she acknowledged, setting the lute aside and leaning her elbows on her knees, chin perched on her fists. “Tasked with killing you, and instead, love at first sight.” She smiled impishly.

Darrick rolled his eyes and waggled the not-quite-a-mabari at her in a manner that was probably supposed to be incredulous. “Uh huh, right. Adorable,” he deadpanned as he resumed carving. “Tell me s'more 'bout that chevalier.”

***

He is twenty years old, and Arl Eamon’s estate in Denerim is quiet. Shianni and Soris are safe and his father has _not_ been shipped off to Tevinter like so much luggage.

They had all looked so _knowing_ when they saw Zevran, even with everything else going on.

Grousing to himself, Darrick rolls over in bed and props himself up on his forearms, blanket slipping halfway down his naked back. “’m I _that_ obvious?”

Zevran cracks an eye open, before he rolls onto his back and slings an arm over his eyes. “Not usually, no. But I gather they know you very well.”

Head falling forward, Darrick heaves a sigh. “Never gonna hear the end of it after today,” he mutters, before he lurches to the side to face-plant on Zevran’s abdomen, blanket falling over his head as he does.

He can feel Zevran shifting to sit up, and then the edge of the blanket is lifted. “You are very dramatic tonight,” Zevran informs him dryly, leaning on one elbow.

“’s'been a really long day,” Darrick mumbles, before he draws an arm up to fold over Zevran’s stomach and lean his chin on it.

“Fair enough,” Zevran concedes with a sympathetic noise. They lapse into silence for a slow moment.

“D'you believe in love at first sight?” Darrick asks eventually, absentmindedly toying with the earring with the hand he’s not leaning on.

“I believe in many things,” Zevran evades, his voice going lofty and his gaze drifting towards the ceiling. When he looks back down, Darrick arches one unimpressed eyebrow at him, and he grins. “Alright, no, I do not. But I _did_ notice very quickly that you are very pretty.”

Darrick has a moment to preen before Zevran wonders, slowly, “Do you?”

“Nah,” Darrick replies without much thought. “Lust, maybe. But ’m pretty sure I prefer what we got.”

He’s pretty sure sleep is at least considering approaching, finally. He darts a look at Zevran’s face to catch the fond <strike>most definitely not sort of sappy</strike> smile being aimed at him, before he shuffles about to get comfortable.


	17. Day 17 - Accidental baby acquisition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sant’cere belongs to a friend I used to rp with back when I had a couple Dragon Age blogs. and today’s her birthday and I like inflicting small children upon characters, so it seemed pretty fitting.

Darrick is scarcely a few meters past the tunnel entrance when he hears the sound. He can’t quite tell what it is at first, still far enough away that the humans in the group can’t hear it at all, Nathaniel instead offering Darrick a bemused look as he cocks his head at the distance.

“Problems?” Nathaniel wonders, though he dutifully falls silent when Darrick flaps a hand at him.

The noise persists, though it gets no closer, and after another moment of confusion the group continues along the tunnel.

It only takes a few minutes before another Warden is grumbling, “Bloody ‘ell is that noise?” and by then they’re close enough that Darrick knows exactly when he’s listening to.

He drops his pack, getting rid of the weight that might slow him down. “Make sure everyone behaves,” he says, not looking back at the rest of the team.

“Of course, ser,” Nathaniel replies.

Darrick doesn’t wait any longer than that before taking off at a sprint down the tunnel, ears straining to keep track of the sound.

He pauses for a millisecond at a T in the tunnel and veers left, and then ducks into an auxiliary tunnel that had been hastily carved through the wall. It opens into a small chamber–an expedition’s camp at some point, most likely–and Darrick grinds to an abrupt halt, staring at the source of the sound.

The little girl–she can’t be older than two–abruptly ceases her crying as she tips her head back to stare up at him, blinking wide, wet brown eyes. Slowly, Darrick approaches, wary of frightening her off down another side tunnel.

It turns out he need not have bothered, as the girl sits down on her butt and resumes wailing, lifting her arms in a blatant demand to be picked up. “C'mon, now,” Darrick coos as he scoops her up and cradles her against one shoulder. “Is all this noise really necessary?” he wonders, taking a cursory glance around the cavern. It’s empty of anyone else, and if the girl was abandoned with any personal items, she’s long since wandered away from them.

She’s a dwarven girl, swarthy and dark haired and malnourished. Casteless, probably, just going off of what he knows about dwarves. As he grabs his water-skin and holds it to her lips, he finds himself wondering if she was abandoned out of desperation or at a family member’s behest, though he supposes the end result is the same.

The water slops down her chin before she figures out what it is, and then she grabs onto his hand and drinks greedily. Her fingers tighten when he pulls the water-skin away before she can make herself sick, and she whimpers like she’s going to start wailing again.

“None’a that,” Darrick hushes her, hoisting her more firmly against his shoulder as he turns to go back the way he came. Unwilling to sprint while holding a toddler, the trip back is slower.

When the group comes back into view, they seem to still be where Darrick left them, and Nathaniel seems to have kept them from collapsing any of the tunnels or otherwise being jackasses. Of course, once he’s close enough for them to see what he’s holding, then the real ruckus starts.

Louder than anything else, there comes a question: “Who the fuck leaves a baby in the Deep Roads?”

Darrick holds the girl out at arm’s length, giving her a slightly more thorough once over now that he’s made it back to the group. Food and water aside, she still seems to be in one piece. Finally, bringing her back to his shoulder, he answers the question.

“Sometimes they dunno what else t’ do.”

The group is quiet, and Darrick turns his attention back to Nathaniel.

“Keep headin’ towards the thaig,” he instructs. “’m gonna get ‘er situated back at the inn an’ I’ll catch up.”

Nathaniel gives him a narrow-eyed, dubious look. "No one here wants you trekking through these tunnels on your own,” he points out.

“I’ll coax Fang outta hidin’ and get ‘er t’ come with me,” Darrick assures him. “I’ll be fine.”

Nathaniel visibly dithers for a moment, before he heaves a sigh, shoulders dipping. “Alright, fine,” he concedes, and Darrick grins up at him.

“Yer m’ favorite,” Darrick assures him, balancing the girl in one arm so he can pick his pack back up with the other. Nathaniel looks sort of unimpressed at the praise even as he helps re-situate the pack.

“Just stay in one piece, alright? I don’t want your job full time.”

Darrick gives him a grin that says 'no promises’ and takes off at a lope.

He’s nearly back to the cave mouth before the noise of the group has died down enough for him to realize he has company. He slows to a halt and peers over his shoulder, and he huffs out a breath of laughter at what he sees.

Russel’s mabari, Belloch, cocks his head to one side before whuffing out a breath and trotting right up to him.

“They’re all such worrywarts,” Darrick coos to the hound. “Didja know that? Yer dad’s a worrywart.”

Belloch whuffs again, louder that time, and bounces from paw to paw before falling into step as Darrick keeps moving.

***

Their room at the inn isn’t particularly large, and Belloch seems to fill most of it as he barges in first. Clegane, far too old for much real adventuring, hefts himself up from where he was dozing on Sant'cere’s feet to halfheartedly greet the new dog. They follow each other in slow circles.

“That was…quick…” Sant'cere remarks as Darrick steps into the room, words slowing as he makes note of his company. First the child in his arms, and then the young dwarven woman following him, holding a toddler of her own.

“Sant'cere, Moria,” Darrick offers. “Moria, Sant'cere.”

“I have no idea what’s going on,” Sant'cere remarks plainly, setting his book down.

“Found 'er in the deep roads,” Darrick states. “The little girl, I mean. Met Moria and 'er son in Dust Town.”

“…A baby,” Sant'cere states dubiously. “In the deep roads.”

“Ee-yep,” Darrick answers, setting the girl down on the floor for Clegane to snuffle at. Giggling, she tugs at his ears.

“…Is she staying here?” Sant'cere asks, alarm creeping into his voice.

“Only until I get back from the thaig,” Darrick assures him, in much the way one might sooth a startled horse.

“I don’t know anything about kids!” he protests sharply, and Clegane boofs at him warningly. Quieter, he adds, “You know that.”

Moria clears her throat. “That’s why I’m here.”

“I…still have no idea what’s going on,” Sant'cere returns helplessly.

Striding across the room, Darrick insinuates himself onto Sant'cere’s lap. It’s generally a good way to help him get what he wants. “Look,” he begins, cupping one side of Sant'cere’s jaw, “Moria will handle the childcare part of it ‘til I get back. After that, she, her kid, an’ the girl will be comin’ back top side with us. Once we get back t’ Amaranthine, I’ll see if Oghren an’ Felsi have any suggestions on what t’ do with ‘er, an’ if not, I know enough surface dwarves I can ask.”

“And…what’s my role in this?” Sant'cere asks, shifting Darrick to a more comfortable position.

“You go with Moria whenever she says she needs t’ go shoppin’ and make sure no one gives 'er shit,” Darrick replies simply.

“And there’s no…I don’t know, an orphanage or something you can give her to?” Sant'cere asks, glancing between Darrick and the little girl trying to climb onto Clegane’s head.

Unwontedly serious, Darrick replies, “Binz, she’s casteless. How much d’you think anyone cares t’ help?”

And Sant'cere doesn’t really have an argument for that. With a groan, his forehead thumps down against Darrick’s shoulder. “Alright,” he grumbles. “Alright, fine. Just until Amaranthine.”

***

Darrick gives Sant'cere a kiss, ruffles the little girl’s hair, and gives Moria his blessing to sic Sant'cere on people as needed. He scratches Clegane’s ears and scrunches up the dog’s jowls before he leaves, Belloch trotting at his heels once again.

He detours back to the gates of Orzammar, stepping back out onto the surface just long enough to find where Fang lurks in the shadows. Reluctant but still surprisingly game, the wolf follows him back into Orzammar and he makes for the deep roads once again.

***

Moria isn’t terrible company. Self-sufficient. Resourceful. Bitingly sarcastic. And most of the time she’s handling any problem the little girl has before Sant'cere can even react. Her son–Beryl, she reminds him–is pretty quiet for a kid that young, and seems content to sprawl on Clegane like he’s a life-sized plush.

Within the first night, Moria has dubbed the girl Trinket. She didn’t exactly come with a name tag, after all.

By the second evening, Clegane has adopted both toddlers as his puppies.

And on the third night, needing to calm a fussing Beryl, Moria shoves Trinket into Sant'cere’s arms and tells him, brooking no argument, “Keep this busy.”

He holds her out at arm’s length beneath her arms and she blinks at him, before she grabs at the end of his sleeve and giggles.

“I guess you’re sort of cute,” he acknowledges cautiously. “Don’t start thinking that means anything, though.”

If she thinks the spill of words coming out of him means anything at all, well, she gives no indication of it.


	18. Day 18 - Poetry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look i don't know how to rhyme just let me live

Leliana is humming, fingers drumming against her lute as she does. Darrick suspects she might start singing at any moment. It happens a lot on nights like this, when the camp seems too quiet and the air seems too taut.

Before she gets a chance, it’s Zevran who says, “As lovely as our nightingale’s voice is, what of you?”

Darrick shakes his head quickly. “I don’ sing.”

“A story, then?” Leliana suggests, needing no further encouragement.

And he pauses, mouth opening to object, before he sighs and concedes. “No one laugh,” he warns, though with little heat. He clears his throat, and one knee bounces as he speaks, heel tapping on the ground.

“There’s a fork in the road  
Where the wind blows slow  
And the breeze in the trees  
It tells you, you should leave

To the left are the mountains  
To the right is the sea  
And somewhere in between them  
Lies the blackened city

There’s a statue there  
With its sword to the sky  
To cut through the wind  
As it moans and cries

It smells of smoke  
So that the flowers choke  
And they stink of dust  
And of beasts long smote

There are nightmares there  
Where the beasts all wail  
And all the people shriek  
Between the rock and Veil

Should the statue speak  
And spew words of fate  
In ancient tongues thought dead  
Be wary accepting the bait

Word one is birth and two is folly  
Three and four hold no sense  
Don’t wait for five  
Or it is your expense

For the blackened city has a toll.”

By the time he finishes, he’s acquired a bit more of an audience. Alistair has set aside the sword he was sharpening, and Bodahn has wandered over from the wagon. They’re all bizarrely quiet, and Leliana looks both perplexed and sort of affronted.

“Quite the tale, there,” Bodahn remarks eventually, chipper as anything.

“Quite the dour tale,” Zevran adds, bemused.

“I haven’t heard that one before,” Leliana huffs.

Darrick shrugs a shoulder. “Mum told it t'me when I was little,” he supplies. “Didn’t really occur t’ bitty me to ask where she learned it.”


	19. Day 19 - Mythology

Zevran and Alistair are across the camp, sparring, play fighting like mabari pups and giving the campfire a very wide berth. Morrigan seems even more intent than usual on staying in her alcove. Sten and Shale are strangely absorbed in a conversation about diamonds and their merits. Wynne and Oghren are splitting a bottle of…something dubiously drinkable by the pond.

And Leliana sits on a log by the fire.

Darrick doesn’t want to say she’s brooding. It’s not really a word he’s ever thought to apply to her. Even so, it seems the only word that actually fits the way she stares into the flames, her hands clenches on her knees.

“…You awright?” he asks eventually, loitering at a safe distance. When she doesn’t immediately reply, he creeps a few paces closer. He’s tossing the pros and cons of poking her with a stick back and forth in his head when she finally replies.

“What was the point of it all?”

Cautiously, he sits down on the opposite end of the log. “Why’s there need’a be a point?”

She scowls at him halfheartedly. “There has to be some meaning behind it. Some reason she had to die.”

“’cause she was a right bitch an’ had it comin’?” he suggests, and he holds his hands up placatingly when her glower gets much less halfhearted. “Too soon, got it.”

“If there was no point,” she insists, “if it was just…something that happened, then everything that happened between us was meaningless!”

“Was part’a what made you…” He gestures at her vaguely with one hand. “You. Why’s that meaningless?”

“If there was no purpose to it, then why is this how he decided it had to end?”

“He didn’t,” Darrick returns blandly. “We did. _We_ put _ourselves_ here, and it ended like that ‘cause that’s how it had’a happen if you wanted ‘er t’ leave you alone.”

“But…” She trails off, mouth working soundlessly for a moment as she tries to get her words into some semblance of order. He waits.

“Do you believe?” she asks at last, a note of desperation in her voice.

Darrick snorts. “You don’ wanna know what I believe, Leli.”

“You have to believe something!” she demands, one hand slamming down on the log.

He’s quiet for a moment, mulling over his words, before he replies, “I believe that, wherever we are, we’re there ‘cause we put ourselves there.” He picks a chunk of bark from the log and flicks it into the fire. “There’s somethin’ out there–maybe the Maker, maybe somethin’ else–but whatever it is, pretty sure it’s only there t’ laugh when we trip.”

He gets to his feet, arms arching up and back until his spine cracks. “Look, you dunno how you feel 'bout it, tha’s fine. Normal. But maybe you should be askin’ yerself how you feel instead of tryin’ to figure out how the Maker feels. If he shows his beauty in the wind an’ the trees I doubt yer gonna get an answer.”

He’s long since decided he was tired of the conversation. Might have decided he was tired of it before it even started, actually. He waits to see if she’s going to say anything, but instead she’s just looking at him. Like she isn’t quite sure how she feels about what he just said and so has settled on just looking sort of sad.

He lopes away to steal a few swigs of whatever Oghren and Wynne are drinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they’re friends, i promise, they just have a few, uh…philosophical differences


	20. Chapter 20

“Not quite, but you’ve almost got it. W-h-i-t-t-l-e.”

“…Wha’s the H for?”

The seems to bring Wynne up short for a moment. “Well, I don’t know if it has a specific purpose,” she replies, rallying gamely. “That’s just how it’s spelled.”

“But it starts with a W sound,” Darrick argues. “There’s no H sound in there.”

“It’s a silent H,” she informs him helpfully.

“Then why’s it gotta be _there_?” he repeats, plaintive.

“I’m afraid I don’t make the rules,” she sighs.

“If there were rules I wouldn’t be havin’ this trouble,” he grumbles, folding his arms and toppling over backwards on the stump, landing in the grass. As Wynne offers him a slightly exasperated look, he wonders, “An’ why’re there two Ts, anyway? ’s'weird.”

Something in her expression eases somewhat, as she’s presented with a question she can actually answer. “It helps indicate how the vowel should sound,” she explains. “Vowels can be–”

“Long or short, yeah, I got that much.”

“And if the vowel is followed by a single consonant, most people will assume it’s a long vowel,” she carries on.

“Yeah, fine,” Darrick huffs, mildly placated by something resembling logic, but not quite finished sulking. He unfolds his arms, reaching up without bothering to actually sit up. Wynne places the primer into his hands. “Le'ssee what other shite’s waitin’ for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once he’s warden-commander he just says ‘fuck it’ and dictates at nathaniel


	21. Day 21 - Hope

“What’re the odds’a me survivin’ this, d’you think?”

Darrick doesn’t get an answer at first, and when he opens his eyes and lifts his head, Zevran is staring at him. He’s straddling the line between concerned and uncomfortable, and for a second Darrick sort of regrets asking. But Zevran’s always been good for the less-good topics.

“Has something changed?” he wonders carefully, after a second to adjust.

Propped up on his elbows, Darrick shrugs one shoulder. “Not really,” he mumbles, gesturing loosely with one hand. Even he isn’t sure what the motion is supposed to convey.

Zevran sits up, blanket pooling around his waist. Darrick groans, tipping forward to bury his face in his arms. “Nooo,” he whines. “Don’ act like i’s all _serious_.”

“You asked if I think you are going to die,” Zevran deadpans. “Please excuse my lack of levity.”

Darrick doesn’t bother to lift his head, instead pulling his arms over the back of it. He can hear Zevran sigh, muffled though it is, and then he feels fingers against his scalp.

“The hero does tend to die in all of the fairy tales,” Zevran acknowledges, “but up until now this has not been a standard fairy tale and you have not exactly been a standard hero,” he points out. “Why should you expect to have a standard ending?”

Darrick suspects it’s a rhetorical question, which is good, considering he can’t actually think of a reply. As it is, it takes him too long to mumble something that might be a ‘thank you’ into the blanket.

Chuckling, Zevran pats the top of his head. “Now, might we go back to sleep? Perhaps you enjoy this hour, but I do not.”


	22. Day 22 - Summer

They’re already soaked by the time they stop to set up camp, so the weather doesn’t really put any sort of pep in their steps. They move sluggishly as they clear enough space and set up the tents. No one bothers to start the fire, and they make do with rations in their tents for dinner.

Zevran doesn’t bother with his own tent, instead ducking into Darrick’s and huddling under both his own furs and Darrick’s. Darrick laughs, wringing his hair out by the tent flap. A whine comes from outside, and he holds the flap out. Clegane shakes off as much as he can while still standing out in the wet and then immediately hops into the tent, curling up like a very large potato beside Zevran.

“Your country is cold,” Zevran informs the dog. “Did you know that? It is supposed to be summer, but it is _cold_.”

“Tell us how ya really feel, Zev,” Darrick snarks, scrubbing a spare shirt over his hair until it stops dripping. Outside, the drizzle has turned into equal parts soggy snow and needling rain. “Anyway, we’re nearly in the mountains,” he points out. “What’re you expectin’?”

“For it to not be cold,” Zevran insists, pulling a fur over his head.

“Maker’s ass, you are such a laceleaf,” Darrick huffs affectionately, dropping to his knees and shuffling across the tent. He tugs the furs from Zevran’s grip, ignoring the brief offended noise he gets and curling up in the bundle. “What’s summer like in Antiva, then? Other’an ‘smells like leather,’ I mean.”

“It does not _snow_,” Zevran grumbles, ducking deeper into the blanket burrow, tucking himself against Darrick’s side, as if he didn’t have four inches on him.

Darrick makes a sympathetic cooing noise and pulls the furs closer. “Sounds fake,” he decides. “You’ll hafta show it t’ me some day.”

Zevran stills beside him, and for a moment Darrick wonders if maybe he overstepped. But it’s a brief moment, and then Zevran shifts, slouching down to get more comfortable. “We will need to handle that 'Crows wanting us dead’ detail first, I think.”

Darrick scoffs. “Please. We’ll think’a somethin’.”


	23. Day 23 - Death

For as lauded as Darrick is for finding the cure, the truth remains that it’s ineffective after a certain level of taint. He found the cure, but it is useless for him. Still, he can’t regret it. He can’t regret his life in general.

Besides, it’s not as if he needs to deal with it alone. They have a pact.

They’re in Orzammar, gathered in a tavern. Despite what they’re waiting to do, they’re boisterous. Laughing and shouting over each other, jostling each other until there’s booze splashed halfway across the table.

“Where’s your sweetheart, anyway?” Bethany asks, pointing an accusatory finger at Darrick. He suspects she’s only asking so Anders will stop pestering her about how she got Rigel to stay away.

“Denerim,” Darrick answers, and then drains his ale. “Zev an’ I said our goodbyes.” He shrugs a shoulder that’s too casual, but none of them call him on it. “Said he’d just wind up followin’ me if he came here, so I made sure he had somethin’ to do.”

“Who’s he killin’?” Oghren asks flatly, prodding at Darrick with one elbow.

“Opposite, actually,” Darrick replies, leaning out of the way and winding up in Sigrun’s space. She pushes him back towards Oghren, and he settles, instead, for ducking under the table and emerging on the other side, between Nathaniel and Anders.

“You can’t just leave it there,” Sigrun points out. “Opposite how?”

“Honor guard for a princess,” Darrick supplies. Before anyone else can ask any questions, he wonders, “Did no one ever manage to find Velanna?”

Anders shrugs, a bit helplessly. “She’s more in the wind than I was. We aren’t even sure if she’s still alive.”

“Speakin’ of,” Oghren pipes in again, “when are we gettin’ this party started?”

“Eager, are you?” Nathaniel asks blandly. Oghren waves a one-fingered gesture at him, and Bethany fails to mask a laugh behind her drink.

“Still waitin’ on someone,” Darrick reminds him. “Get another drink, you’ll be fine.”

It’s not a command Oghren is going to argue with, and as he waves for another round, the group lapses back into aimless camaraderie.

When the final member of their party arrives, they sense him coming, the group looking up as one as the tavern door swings open. The King of Ferelden strolls into the tavern, the door thumping shut in his wake. His hair has long since gone silver, but his armor still fits perfectly.

He makes it halfway to their table before Darrick surges to his feet and sprints at him. Laughing, Alistair catches him, weight adjusting automatically as Darrick lunges and latches on, legs around Alistair’s middle and arms around the back of his neck.

It takes a moment before Darrick leans back enough for them to properly look at each other. “Hey,” he offers, with a smile that wobbles.

“Hey,” Alistair returns, and a gentle smile quirks one side of his mouth as he leans their foreheads together. “Holding up?”

“’s'loud,” Darrick answers, voice low.

“Quit neckin’!” Oghren shouts at them, tossing an empty tankard in their direction. If he even notices Sigrun smacking his shoulder, he doesn’t say anything about it.

With a scoff of laughter, Alistair sets Darrick’s feet back on the floor. “Well, unless we’re waiting on anyone else, I think it’s about time for us to go.”

A murmur goes through the group, the previous cheer ebbing. Even so, none of them protest. They get to their feet and make their way towards the door. Darrick falls into step behind them, pausing in the tavern doorway as he realizes how quiet the tavern has become.

Holding the door open with one hand, he peers back over his shoulder. The bartender catches his eye, and salutes.

Darrick dredges up a grin, toothy and too cocky by half, before he steps out of the tavern. The door bangs closed behind him.


	24. Day 24 - Superheroes/Supervillains

“So what do they call you, anyway?” Darrick wiggles absentmindedly from his seat on the floor. Less to escape the zip-ties holding his wrists together and more just for the sake of doing so. “I mean, you’ve got that sorta…state sanctioned look about you,” he carries on, nodding towards the much taller stranger in a manner that seems to indicate him in his entirety. “And they’ve always got fancy codenames.”

“Null,” the blond answers simply, hardly sparing Darrick a glance.

“Makes sense,” Darrick returns earnestly. His powers are still gone. He’s not sure if it’s something Null is actively doing, or if it’s just a matter of being in proximity to him. 

They’re silent for a moment, until Null wonders eventually, “And you? Are you part of some group, or is this more of a hobby?” His tone turns sort of unpleasantly wry at the end.

Darrick laughs. “Man, I’m runnin’ around in a Vogmask and a pair of goggles. I just wanna pay rent.”

Null looks down at him sharply, visibly bemused even past his visor. “With those–you’re a _teleporter_,” he points out incredulously. “You could probably get onto any team in the country, and you’re robbing convenience stores.”

“Uh huh, ‘cause they just accept anyone,” Darrick drawls. “I’m sure you didn’t have a single impressive reference in your dossier when you got accepted.” He grins when Null’s face pinks beneath his visor. 

Darrick lets the embarrassed silence linger for a couple minutes before he muses, “I think I’d go by Jaunt, if I was a hero.” He ponders it for a moment, and then nods once, decisively. “Yeah. Also, I’m pretty sure you’re not, like…_super_flexible.”

Null sighs, aggravated. It comes out less like a question than it should when he deadpans, “And how can you tell that.”

“Else it might’ve occurred to you that I could do this,” Darrick returns pleasantly, before he shifts his weight backwards, through the loop of his joined arms. He drags his arms down the length of his legs, already scrambling to his feet.

“What–no–_hey_!”

With a whoop, Darrick takes off at a sprint. The sound of booted steps and a quick glance back tells him that Null is still right behind him, but he has surprise on his side and a head start. Continuously attempting to teleport, he’s gone the instant he’s out of Null’s range.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <s>yes null is alistair but it wouldn't have really made sense for him to properly introduce himself in the fic</s>


	25. Day 25 - Flowers

It’s strange, by the standards of flowers. A long stalk, covered in bowl-shaped leaves, each bowl with a small white flower trying to crawl out of it. Zevran eyes the sprig with fond bemusement as Darrick tucks it into his pack, before he’s tugged down for a kiss, brief and chaste with Nathaniel and Anders grinning from just a few yards off.

“’s'a Fereldan Bell,” Darrick says once they part, answering the unasked question.

“_Very_ informative,” Zevran assures him, hitching his pack onto his back. “And does it ring, or is it merely for decoration?”

Darrick shrugs one shoulder and leans up for another brief peck. “Just for luck,” he answers simply. “Try not t’ get inta too much trouble while yer gone.”

Zevran feigns a pout and brings a hand to his chest. “Such little faith in me,” he accuses.

“’m very small,” Darrick reminds him with overwrought patience. “Only so much room fer feelings.”

(“Please,” Nathaniel scoffs in the background, while Anders shoves is knuckles into his mouth to keep silent.)

Zevran rolls his eyes. “I will still be in one piece when I return. So will the keep, yes?”

“I kept it standin’ so far!” Darrick protests, swatting Zevran’s arm with the back of his fingers.

Zevran turns his sardonic gaze towards Nathaniel. “Please babysit him.”

“We look forward to it,” Anders rushes to assure him, wordlessly ducking out of the way of Nathaniel’s swat.

As Darrick rounds on them, already squawking indignantly, Zevran observes for only a moment longer before he turns and begins to make his way down the road. He’ll be back soon enough, and he’s at least _pretty_ sure Vigil’s Keep will still be standing.


	26. Day 26 - Wedding

The wedding is less traumatic than it could have been. Granted, most things would seem a bit toothless in comparison to everything else that had happened. The vows are simple; the bride and groom don’t exactly know each other well enough to tailor their vows to each other. The ceremony is brief. The coronation follows almost immediately.

Afterwards, hiding in a quiet corridor, Alistair twists the ring on his finger back and forth and stares off somewhere past the opposite wall.

Unexpectedly, it’s Zevran who finds him, the door from the main hall opening just enough for him to dart through unseen before closing again. Alistair offers him a distracted smile before fully realizing he’s there.

“Tired of the party already?”

Zevran gives him a wry look. “Darrick is still getting bandied about by his adoring public, and he kept looking anxiously at your door once you disappeared.” His voice drops to a mutter as he muses, “Honestly, he is like a puppy, he just makes that expression and I–” He cuts himself off and clears his throat. “Since he is tied up, I am taking his place as the king’s minder for the moment.”

Alistair wrinkles his nose slightly at the title. Not quite displeased, but still off balance.

“_Are_ you having a crisis?” Zevran wonders, folding his arms and leaning against the opposite wall. Alistair huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Surprisingly, no,” he replies, bemused. “I sort of figured I’d be going to pieces right about now? But mostly I’m just doing that ‘thinking about what happens next’ thing, which I’ve gathered is part of my new job description.” There’s a beat, before he adds wryly, “Also yeah, part of my brain’s just making that 'wind in the trees’ noise, but that’s nothing new.”

Zevran grins. “It sounds to me like you will be fine. Shall I tell our puppy that he can stop whining, then?”

“You probably should,” Alistair returns dryly. “How long are you two sticking around, anyway?”

“Already so sure we will be sticking together?” Zevran asks, feigning affront.

Alistair’s expression evens out until he looks remarkably unimpressed. “Zev, you proposed.” He grins when Zevran stammers out something that’s maybe supposed to be words, but none of them get past the first syllable. Smile turning impish, Alistair wonders, “How long before we should start listening for _your_wedding bells, hm?”

“I see no reason to be _hasty_ now,” Zevran protests. “After all, I am technically still a wanted man and I have gathered that Dare has more on his plate to–_will you stop laughing at me?_”

“I will no~ot,” comes the sing-song reply, before Alistair pushes away from the wall and reaches for the door, ducking back into the main hall before Zevran can retaliate.


	27. Day 27 - Celebration

Alistair is the first to recover, still shaky on his feet even as he heaves aside a fallen chunk of the tower to help Wynne to her feet. She’s remarkably unflattened courtesy of a well-timed Stone Fist.

Farther off, Zevran kicks a shriek corpse aside and rolls onto his side. Beside him, a slightly charred mage is offering him a hand up, and he accepts it. The world sways for a moment once he’s upright, and he plants the tip of his long sword against the ground for balance.

The archdemon lies dead a few yards off, its neck split and twisted at an unnatural angle while its mouth gapes open, its eyes staring sightlessly out over the rooftops of Denerim. For a drawn out moment, no one makes a move.

Finally, Zevran takes an unsteady step towards the dragon. By the third one, he’s steady enough to break into a lope.

He crashes right back to his knees in relief at the sight he sees.

Muttering to himself, dazed but reasonably in one piece, Darrick drags himself out from beneath one large, scaly talon, doing most of the work with his forearms and elbows. His hands and even parts of his lower arms are a mess of burns and blisters and most of the skin on his palms has been ripped away from his forcible separation from his sword, but that is a manageable problem, all things considered.

Zevran catches him under the arms and hauls him the rest of the way out from under the archdemon’s forelimb, before he sags again, shoulders lifting and then falling like an avalanche as he heaves a sigh.

“Hey, hon,” Darrick mumbles, partially propped up against Zevran’s lap. He sort of eels his way upwards, until he can shove his face against Zevran’s neck, instead. “M’ hands hurt,” he slurs into Zevran’s collarbone. “Like, really bad.”

“That would be because they look like ground meat,” Zevran informs him, glancing up to get a bead on wherever Wynne is. When he spots her, white hair standing out amongst the still-settling dust, he finds her triaging the situation, and he supposes he can’t really pull her away from that when, for the most part, Darrick is…okay-ish.

“Hey, hon,” Darrick repeats, less like a greeting and more to get Zevran’s attention. When he gets an inquisitive noise in return, he points out, “I jus’ killed the archdemon.” There’s a stuttering, slightly hysterical titter. “’m not dead.”

“No,” Zevran agrees, voice a bit far away, the situation only just beginning to sink in now that he knows it’s allowed to. “No you are not,” he muses. His hands lift as if not of his own free will. One hand slides through Darrick’s hair, absently searching for bumps, soft spots, cuts…

The fingers of his other hand skate along the edge of Darrick’s jaw to tip his head up. Darrick’s eyes are wide, pupils still blown with adrenaline, nearly overtaking the green of his irises. But he’s alright. He’s not dead. He’s _fine_.

Darrick laughs into the kiss as Zevran crushes their mouths together, hand tightening in Darrick’s hair, the other cupping his cheek. Darrick leans up on his knees, though most of his weight is still being held up by Zevran’s shoulder. His arms are curled carefully between them, largely ignored because in the grand scheme of things it’s a minor discomfort.

It’s messy and hurried and too brief, and they lean their foreheads together when they part. “’m okay,” Darrick murmurs. Quieter, almost wonderingly, “Yer okay.”

“We are okay,” Zevran confirms, and he looks like he is trying to think of something to say. Something soft and sappy and too serious. Darrick kisses him again, instead.


	28. Day 28 - Family

The house is empty when Darrick pushes the door open and steps inside, dragging Zevran by the hand as he enters. Zevran follows him in willingly enough, but there is still something reluctant in his stride, and he glances around warily as the door thumps closed.

The fact that there is no one else inside doesn’t seem to relax him at all.

There’s a rustle and a clatter as Darrick drops his pack to the floor and shoves it into an out of the way corner with his foot. Seeing Zevran doesn’t seem particularly inclined to be functional just then, Darrick relieves him of his pack, as well.

“Ye’ve already met ‘em,” Darrick points out, looping an arm around Zevran’s and towing him deeper into the house.

“That was _different_,” Zevran insists, sharp and plaintive. He doesn’t protest as he’s pushed into a chair.

“You helped me get rid’a slavers. And helped free m’ dad from said slavers,” Darrick reminds him, planting himself on Zevran’s lap. “Preeettttyyyy sure they’ll be inclined to like you.”

Ducking his face against Darrick’s hair, Zevran grumbles, “They did not know we were together then.”

Darrick barks out a laugh, sudden enough that Zevran jolts like a startled cat. Darrick scritches his scalp in absentminded apology and assures him, “Oh, they _definitely_ knew. C'mon, we’ve talked about this before.”

More grumbling follows, wordless that time.

“Yes, yes, that’s it,” Darrick soothes. “Just get it alllll outta yer system before they get home.”

He laughs when he finds himself unceremoniously dumped on the floor.


	29. Day 29 - Height difference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> follow up to day 8's story  
also Dare is like 5'2" and in my head Alistair is a very solid 6'3"

The thing is, standing next to each other, the top of Darrick’s head barely manages to reach Alistair’s shoulder. He is genuinely small enough that climbing Alistair like a ladder mid-battle is a legitimate strategy, and they have used it multiple times.

It also means that when Alistair steps into Darrick’s room in Redcliffe Castle and just quietly stands in front of the closed door, there is no real way of moving him unless he decides to move. Darrick doesn’t really have any exit options unless he decides to go the long way. He eyes the window surreptitiously.

“If you’re honestly thinking of going out the window, I’ll move,” Alistair points out blandly, “but we just…need to talk about…earlier.”

Darrick’s eyes narrow sharply. “_Earlier_?” he asks, sweet and sticky as honey. “I dunno, Your Majesty, ya might need'a explain that.” For all the saccharine venom behind the words, he doesn’t actually make a move for the window, instead sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I fucked up,” Alistair states, stepping away from the door.

Darrick opens his mouth to reply, something snide on his tongue, only to swallow it back when he realizes he’s not being argued with. Wind swept from his sails, he closes his mouth with a click of teeth.

“There was no time for you to let me know about your idea, and I should have trusted you,” Alistair continues. “I’m sorry. I just–” He makes an aggravated noise, hands gesticulating aimlessly in front of him before he runs a hand through his hair. “I got so caught on the idea of him getting a do-over after everything he’s done that it didn’t occur to me that you had something in mind. I was being stupid.”

Darrick is silent for a moment, before he groans and slumps forward, face in his hands and his elbows on his knees. “Maker’s ass, Ali,” he groans, voice muffled, and drags his hands down his face. He doesn’t bother straightening back up, arms still draped over his knees. “D'you have any idea how hard you make it t'be mad at you?”

Alistair snorts. “I know so many people who would disagree with you,” he returns wryly. He hesitates for a moment before asking, “So…are we good?”

Darrick heaves a sigh, shoulders rising and falling with the gesture. “Yeah,” he sighs, crooked smiling quirking one side of his lips. “Yeah, we’re good.”


	30. Day 30 - Pining

It has been six years since they were last in Denerim. The marketplace hasn’t changed all that much, and the city is still backwoods enough that people eye Garnet like he’s going to try taking someone’s hand off.

(And, in fairness, he could. He’s a dracolisk; he has a temper. But he would never knowingly disappoint Zevran, since he hates it when Zevran gives him the puppy dog eyes.)

Zevran peruses a table of knives, holding Garnet’s reins loosely. Behind him, Darrick fusses with Belle’s mane, braiding and unbraiding and rebraiding the same section over and over, even as he bounces on his heels.

Every so often, he shoots a glance from Zevran to the distant castle and back to Zevran. It has been six years since he got to see Alistair. It feels like longer, even with periodic letters.

Belle snorts and stomps a hoof, very narrowly avoiding Darrick’s toes when he pulls her mane too hard. He smooths a hand down her muzzle in apology and moves to a different section of mane.

Even Belle is beginning to get fidgety, her ears angling backwards. Her tail lashes like she’s trying to ward off fly strike and she stomps one rear hoof. She jigs back and forth, until her rear end bashes into Garnet’s.

The dracolisk rounds on her, jerking his head around so sharply his reins slip out of Zevran’s fingers. He snaps, coming within millimeters of taking one of the mare’s ears off. Not one to be so easily cowed, Belle pins her ears flat and paws at the cobblestones. Garnet makes a noise like a phantom swimming in a cauldron. Darrick goes very still between the two of them.

With a sigh, Zevran catches Garnet’s reins again. With great reluctance, he turns his attention away from Belle.

“Dare.”

Sheepishly, Darrick peers over his shoulder. “Yeah, hon?”

“I will meet you at the castle when I am finished here.”

Darrick grins, blindingly bright. He leans past Garnet to plant a kiss on the end of Zevran’s nose, and then he hoists himself up into Belle’s saddle and gathers her reins.

“Don’t spend all our coin,” Darrick calls, already urging Belle into motion.

Unruffled, Zevran calls after him, “Our money is safer in my hands than yours.”

Laughing, Darrick urges Belle into a trot as he sets off for the castle.


	31. Day 31 - There was only one bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S THE FINAL FICLET  
//rock music plays

Technically speaking, it is Morrigan’s room, but she doesn’t quite look like she fits in it. It happens a lot when she’s inside in general–anyone who looks at her can tell she was made for the trees and the soil and the sky–but sitting on the end of the four-poster bed, she seems even more out of place than ever before.

“Shall I call for the court artist for a sketch?” she wonders, her eyebrows rising. “T'would last longer, I suspect.”

“Please,” Darrick scoffs good-naturedly, hands resuming the work of unlacing his vest. “As if time has anything on you.”

“Would you like some assistance with that?” she asks, her eyes going half-lidded.

Darrick’s hands pause again, but only for a second that time. “Let’s just…treat this like business,” he replies, before he shrugs the vest off of his shoulders. He pulls his tunic off and drops it on the floor a moment later.

“If that is what you would prefer,” she agrees easily, turning her attention to her own clothing. By the time Darrick has his boots off, she’s already bare and watching him expectantly. He shucks his breeches and his underwear expediently.

“Do the others know?” Morrigan wonders as Darrick double checks that the door is locked.

“Mmhm,” he hums in confirmation. “Told Ali so he wouldn’t worry. Told Zev ‘cause, well, 'full disclosure’ an’ 'transparency’ an’ all that.” He pads silently towards the bed.

“I see you are very good at keeping secrets,” she observes dryly, easing herself towards the headboard.

“Yer too smart t’ think I wouldn’t tell 'em,” he points out. “Can we not talk 'bout that right now?”

“Suit yourself,” she agrees, watching him expectantly once again. He plants a hand on the bed, and then a knee, and then he’s crawling along the mattress towards her.

**Author's Note:**

> by the way, i have [a tumblr](https://shaicarus.tumblr.com/) if anyone wants to chat


End file.
